Near Death
by macgyvershe
Summary: AU Mycroft is very suspicious, the new flatmate of Sherlock's has holes in his history. That means Watson is a dangerous man not to be trusted with his baby brother. Contains torture of major character, talk of torture. Violence against John, Holmes brothers violence and talk about death. Warning character death in chapter 10.
1. Chpt 1 A Dangerous Man

Near Death

It had started the moment that John had spoken to Sherlock. Mycroft had monitors where ever Sherlock was known to hang out. And Bart's was rigged with a large network of monitors. It was a good thing too, that Mycroft was in the position he was in. Keeping tabs on his baby brother was hard enough on the best of days. If he hadn't had government backing and manpower it would have been impossible.

"I want a full record of John Watson. I'd like to have in on my desk in two hours."

(-_-)

Anthea brought the file in and Mycroft flipped through it within minutes.

"There are an awful lot of holes in this man's past." Mycroft was smelling the ever present rat; the rat that wanted his baby brother.

"He seems innocuous enough," Anthea remarked.

"It's the innocuous one's you have to watch out for," Mycroft's soft tone turning treacherous.

"I wouldn't worry too much, Sir. Your brother isn't the friendly type; he'll have this Watson running away at full tilt soon enough."

"I want to put a dark unit on him in any case, just to be sure. I want to know his every move. I really don't enjoy not knowing what motivates people."

(-_-)

John knew that something was wrong right away. The war had taught him to trust his instincts and they were shouting at him that he was being tailed and not by amateurs, but military grade personnel. No one knew (it wasn't in any file, anywhere) but he'd had Black Ops training. He was a doctor and a soldier and really something else entirely, trained at levels that were far superior to these chaps.

He'd moved in with Sherlock, finding comradeship and a strange connection, a _**strong **_strange connection with that idiot/genius. Sure he as a bit daft, but weren't all young people. Look at his younger sister, though he loved her dearly, he couldn't save her from her self destructive ways, but he was pretty sure he could save Sherlock.

So immediately he began strapping on his browning in the waist holster that he had. He was watching Sherlock's back as well as his own. Sherlock was in his element, he bounded about London solving cases and being blindingly brilliant. It was then that this government git had him picked up. PICKED him up and attempted to intimidate him. John was not easily intimidated. He may be suffering from PTSD, but with Sherlock at his side he most definitely felt like he could cure the common cold and bring about world peace in the blink of a corpse's eye.

(-_-)

Mycroft was getting edgy and you really didn't want to piss him off when he was on edge to begin with. "Anthea, I'm not happy with the attitude that I received from Watson. He's definitely dangerous and I'm not having him around Sherlock. I want you to have Crane and Stanford interfere with Watson this evening and let him know that I'm not amused and that he should think long and hard about moving out of 221B and leave my brother to his own devices."

(-_-)

That evening Mycroft got a phone call from Anthea. "Sir, we have confirmation on contact with Watson."

"Good, I'm glad that is out of the way."

"Sir, it's not what you think. Both our agents are now in hospital, apparently our innocuous Watson is much more dangerous than we thought. How do you want us to proceed?"

(-_-)

John sat in his chair bleeding as Sherlock ran up to John's room to get his medical bag. He came back down double quick time and was gathering up clean cloths and a basin of warm water.

"Shall I call Lestrade? Did you get a good look at them?" Sherlock was leaning John's head back and gently wiping the caked blood from his face. He was also taking in the myriad of cuts, bruises and abrasions covering the surfaces of John's skin. "Was it a mugging?"

"No, these were not muggers Sherlock; just idiots."

"John?" Sherlock was concerned.

"Haven't I told you Sherlock, I am part of a secret society that is attempting to take over the world by kicking high testosterone arse?" John said trying to smile with a battered cheek and swollen lip.

"Why are you are trying to make light of this, John?"

"Sherlock it was some heavies thinking they could push a little guy around. I taught them a lesson, neither one of them walked away. End of story."

"John you know that I will deduce what happened?"

"Go ahead deduce away."

Sherlock huffed and kept working on patching John up. He would let it go for now, put it on a back burning for later. John's immediate care was most important. Later he would hunt down and kill the two men who had accosted John. John's reluctance to divulge who the thugs were was troubling.

(-_-)

"I want Stivers, Cromwell, Jenkins and Smith to make my wishes known to Watson yet again," Mycroft spoke. "They will most likely be upset that he has dared to injure their brethren. I am sure they will be beyond restraint."

"Indeed." Anthea was sure that Watson would not be treated well at all.

(-_-)

"You will not keep me from him," Sherlock was rabid as hospital security tried to muscle him out of their facility. Sherlock drew legal papers from his Belstaff and proffered them in front of their eyes. "I have his power of attorney and that trumps familial attachments."

Sherlock was escorted back to John's room and the ever inebriated Harry gave him the evil eye and left without word. He sat at John's bedside and took his small hand in his. It would be a long night, a very long night. The doctors were adamant that the concussion was the worst of John's injuries. While the bones, muscles and tendons would all heal. The concussion was severe and possibly life threatening if it didn't alleviate itself in a short amount of days.

(-_-)

Mycroft accompanied by three of his men-at-arms entered the quiet hospital room.

"Mycroft, this is you isn't it!" Sherlock shouted in rage coming at Mycroft and bashing his face in, dashing him into his men as he fell towards the ground. His men caught him, but damage had been done. His nose was bloodied, most likely broken and his lower lip was split and bleeding profusely. It took all three of Mycroft's men to subdue Sherlock and pinion him to the opposing wall. If they had not, Sherlock would have committed fratricide that very moment.

"You bastard, you had your foul creatures injured John. Let me go and I will finish what I have begun." Sherlock struggled and Mycroft's men had to concentration all of their power to keep him a safe distance away.

"Sherlock," Mycroft was trying to be level headed in the face of utter disaster. "Stop this at once. This was to be message given. Watson was the one that degraded the whole affair to a full-fledged brawl that brought him to hospital."

"Four against one man already battered from a prior 'message' from you. I shall have your life for this!"

"He is a DANGEROUS man Sherlock with huge holes in his history and you know what that means." Mycroft was belligerent now.

"He is my _'dangerous man'_, Mycroft and I will not be parted from him, not by you or any man."

"Sherlock," a voice weak with injury and disuse begs audience.

Sherlock rips himself from Mycroft's men to return to John's side.

"Get out," Sherlock glares daggers at Mycroft who stands dripping blood upon his three piece suit. "Get out and take your filth with you. Should you or they cross my path again I will do my worse."

Mycroft takes his men and departs rather badly.

"Sherlock," John pulls his lover close. "What was that, the shouting?"

"Mycroft and his minions came to gloat at your bedside; to tell me that you are a dangerous man. Did you know you were a dangerous man, John?"

"I always thought that I was _your_ dangerous man," John half smiles.

"Right you are, my love." Sherlock is so happy that John speaks, returning to him at last. In his mind he plots his revenge upon Mycroft and his dark minions.

"When can we go home?" John asks in all seriousness.

"Sooner than soon, my love," Sherlock replies.


	2. Chpt 2 Sherlock's Dangerous Man

**Near Death**

**A Dangerous Man**

Finally, finally they were back home. Sherlock was so very relieved. The very short time that they'd been together a bond had been formed between them. This strong, strange bond that was like forged steel. This man, this John Watson was always a surprise, an enigma, a mystery that wanted to be solved and never would. He made Sherlock want to be the better man. He made Sherlock beg and moan. He was a gentle man with serious issues of trust, but that first night he'd trusted Sherlock and god help him, Sherlock had trusted him. They were a match. Like the little salt and pepper shakers that looked so right together, like the sky and the horizon that had all those long lines coming together just in the right places at the right time.

Sherlock knew that John was more than he seems. He'd seen him move. The crack shot over long distances, the way he hid his strong physique beneath those common jumpers. He'd seen the exceptional man beneath. The flawed man that needed purpose; John's life was all about purpose. To serve man, to serve Queen and Country, to serve the cause of, well, Sherlock wasn't sure of that last bit? He'd looked into those midnight blue eyes and he lost himself in their mystery. No deception, just information un-divulged. Sherlock slept with a killer at his side and loved him, cherished him and craved him.

John slept in their bed. He was damaged, but on the mend. There wasn't much that Sherlock could do now. He'd fed his lover. He'd touched every inflicted injury, memorized each wound and god help them they would all pay. Each and every minion and bloody Mycroft too. That shite for brains brother of his, meddling, vacuous and villain hearted government git. They would all pay dearly and over time for what they had done to John.

"Hey you," the soft voice that could command and control each and every person within hear shot, that voice that broke him down and soothed his broken pieces back together. That voice he could not now live without called him.

"John," Sherlock said the name like a prayer, like a poem, like the only fucking word that matters in all of eternity. "John, you need to rest."

"What I need is you, here. He gestured to the empty space at his side."

Sherlock came to bed. How could he not. He filled that empty space and smiled into the weathered face of his John.

"Sherlock, I've never done anything that I was ashamed of. You need to know that. Whatever anyone tells you. That is my personal truth. If you ever want me to leave, you just say the word and I'm gone and you will never see or hear of me again."

At these words Sherlock panicked and pulled John tighter about his slender frame. He shook with fear, real fear. John felt his tremors and quickly soothed his lover's discomfort.

"Until you say the word, I will be at your side, with you until my last breath. Understand that. Know that in your bones, feel that pulsing in your blood. Tears formed in the corners of John's eyes. There were no outward signs of stress, of crying, just the glittering tears that formed and slowly slid down pale cheeks beneath eyes that looked at Sherlock with longing and love.

"I don't care about the past," Sherlock said with confidence, "I don't give a shite about what's behind us. All that matters is now. Right now. Just give me that and I'll be okay. Don't ever leave me, please." Sherlock didn't say that word at all, not at all. He never said please. Unless he was trying to manipulate people, he wasn't trying to manipulate John. He wanted him to stay, to rest, to be at peace; to be as dangerous as he wanted to be.

John looked at the younger man and saw himself. A quirky kid, who no one cared to understand, only this quirky kid was brilliant in ways that were beyond imagination. This quirky kid would change the world. Well, didn't all the quirky kids in the entire world change things? Make things better. Of course they did.


	3. Chpt 3 Linger

**Near Death**

**Lingering**

John awoke wrapped in the warm cocoon of Sherlock's arms. It was so odd that someone so long limbed who might be awkward could so easily and comfortable fit himself around his lover. John was certain that they could remain in this jumble of arms and limbs for a long period of time and be entirely comfortable and happy. That was the right of it, being happy. Sherlock deduced who John was upon their meeting and John had seen that Sherlock was everything he'd been looking for too. They both stood near death. Lingering there to view and observe and witness, because death was more real when it was witnessed, just as life was more real when you lived it fully tilt like Sherlock Holmes.

John had stood near death, had held it in his arms, had watched it fade from bright eyes that would never see anything again; had knelt beside death as it came too slowly or too quick. He'd thrown death at others, had delivered it without being seen, and long ago John had stopped crying. Knowing that death was the only true destination, that everything else was transport. For John tears had stopped being a part of his repertoire knowing that they served no purpose in this life, not that they were a sign of weakness; but in the long run you needed that salt and that water for other more important things. Yet he'd been moved to tears last night; he felt the rightness of tears. The joy and the pain they expressed. He knew that he could be more expressive now; to Sherlock, to the world in general and to himself. His 'trust issues' were at last being addressed.

He'd felt like transport for a long time, yet he couldn't bring himself to embrace death even after he'd lost his purpose; unable to be healer or killer or anything to anyone. Now he had purpose, a lover, and more importantly he had found himself again. Not lost in the miasma of regret, of longing, of loss; John was following this genius, this idiot and he knew that this was the right of it. This was where he'd die in the traces, following this man, his lover, his best friend.

"John," the name was whispered into his ear with reverence and just a bit of saucy sexy breathing.

"You're awake are you? Bout time you came around. You ready to be shagged back to sleep?" John said with humor in his voice.

"Yes, please and thank you," Sherlock replied. The rage of curly dark hair tickled John on the back of his neck as he turned in Sherlock's arms. Capturing those sensual lips with his own John began his assault on Sherlock Holmes. Now Sherlock knew what it was to be wanted, not for his brain, or his abilities, but merely for who he was. He was that unusual man who stood too near death, who witnessed it, catalogued it and contemplated its ever line and shadow. Now they would stand together, they would follow death throughout London, in her posh estates, her dirty, dingy back allies and always they would find death and see it with the eyes of truth.

John took Sherlock, offered him pleasure and pain, sadness and laughter. Love and the demon desire, he played his body like the fine instrument that it was; like Sherlock played his violin. John filled him and emptied him in equal amounts and left him boneless and breathless and bearly alive then he held him tight. Knowing that his love would sleep now; sleep the sleep of the very well shagged and wake with desire yet again and John could wait for his release. He could wait for time was the currency of his life now.

(-_-)

John could see that his Sherlock (it was so grand to think those thoughts) had not been given much affection attention in his short life. John was determined to change all that. And really the walk-up was always better than the opening door, at least in John's experience, but he was ready to open a lot of doors for Sherlock as he taught him about all the wonderful, intoxicating, thrilling walk-ups.

John slept holding love in his arms. Sherlock awoke with raging hormones and there was no stopping those hormones – he was more than adequate to the task of relieving John's sexual tensions in an extraordinary manner of inventive ways.

(-_-)

John made tea, a strong black tea with a full on breakfast for himself as Sherlock begged off from eating. Though not hungry, John did tempt him to eat many morsels from his hand. John can be very tempting when he wants to be.

It was a cold case Monday. Finally shaved, showered and dressed, John came in on Sherlock working at his computer and reviewing cold case files from Lestrade.

"How goes it, love," John asks?

"I've located the six men involved in your 'messages' and I've solved 12 out of 15 cold cases in just this bit of morning after breakfast. You will have to do that omelet with bacon and greens again soon. It was quite tasty in a non-boring sort of way."

"So what plans have you laid for the gentlemen in question and what are we to do with your bastard brother?"

"My bastard brother, well yes, I have deemed his actions the most egregious and his punishment the more vile and long term."

"You still have not said what you plan to do." John made tea and pulled biscuits from the tin. Setting Sherlock's tea down within arm's reach, he sat in his chair and smiled the smile of contentment.

"The minions will find themselves in financial ruin, then they will be involved in the sordid affair of child pornography and that is only the beginning." Sherlock was very proud of his accomplishments in such a short span of time.

"Jeeezeus, lover, they will suffer many times more than I ever did." John said a bemused look upon his face. "They will be devastated."

"And so they should be for laying hands on you, John. I'll not tolerate it." Sherlock was concentrating one his computer.

"Remind me, Sherlock, never to make you cross at me, ever. How are you doing all this? Do you have an army at your disposal?"

"Better yet, I am a member of a computer hacker community, Serpent's Tooth. In a computer controlled society ST has the know how to provide, provoke and penetrate any organization, group or government. It's thankless child's play."

"Shakespeare's King Lear 'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child'."

"John, you continue to surprise me. It's something that you do. You are not intimidated by any Holmes. And you know it is exceedingly hard to surprise me."

At that moment, Mycroft entered the flat and simultaneously Sherlock immediately stood and came between his brother and is new lover.

"Mycroft, if you value your life, you will leave now."


	4. Chpt 4 Murder by Madness

**Near Death pt 4**

**Murder by Madness**

"Advance one more step and I will break that preposterous family nose of yours," Sherlock warned.

"I don't know how you are doing these things to my men, but you are to cease at once," Mycroft was calm in his manner but there was the threat of darkness in his voice. "These men were under my orders and should not be subjected to you malicious, vile temper."

"Neither should my," Sherlock paused unused to the word working in his mouth, "_lover_ be abused because he doesn't meet your yardstick approval. Now get out before I throw you out."

John could see that the anger and threat level was escalating to physical violence.

Mycroft came forward a step and John, despite still recovering from injuries, was right there between the feuding siblings.

"I speak on behalf of sanity and the physical safety of all involved when I say that this must stop now!" This was said in his command voice, the captain breaking up the row of his underlings.

"Sherlock, this does appear to be overkill on your part. The first two gentlemen were badly injured and those that followed didn't walk away without damage. So I think that you might want to back off of your revenge as I don't think that their actions warrant your vicious retaliation."

"And you," John turned on Mycroft. "Your brother is old enough to make his own life decisions. I will remind you that what you have done is misuse of government personal and time plus the assault on a wounded war vet recently invalided home from war, this could result in a massive court case against you and your department. I do know a few lawyers who would happily snap up a case like this and chew on it for years. So you had better BACK OFF."

Now that he had both their attentions. "You will sit calmly and cool off while I make some tea."

The brothers did as they were told, though they glared so determinedly at each other that if looks could kill, they would have murdered most of the populace of their wonderful island home.

John came back with tea and biscuits, poured and passed the biscuits, then took his seat next to Sherlock on their couch. "Now that there appears to be some semblance of peace, you will now work these matters out before my tea is gone."

"I will withdraw my actions if you will compensate John for his pain and suffering plus provide him with a special permit that will allow him to carry a firearm. We are up against more that petty thieves and we need the fire power in order to keep safe."

"That is out of the…"

Sherlock gave Mycroft a bitter, cold glare that would have re-frozen the entirety of the Northern hemisphere. John put his hand behind his back as if reaching for his Browning.

"It will take a matter of days, it won't be easy with his history the way it is."

"Good, that's excellent," John said clearing his throat. "My tea's neither finished nor cold and everything is all better. I knew that you two could do it if you had too." He bit into his biscuit and put his arm around Sherlock drawing him close. "I'm proud to be a part of this rather fucked up family."

Sherlock was not a totally happy consulting lover, but John knew he could fix his wagon later.

"So if there is no further discussion to be had, I think we need to break things off while everyone still has all their extremities. Mister Holmes let me walk you to the door."

Reluctantly, Sherlock relinquished John as he escorted Mycroft out. When Mycroft reached the front door he put his hand on the door knob and turned to John.

"You may have won this round, Doctor Watson, but I wouldn't be too pleased with yourself. I don't think you'll last very long with Sherlock. He's not a cute and cuddly personality and he will find something about you that he can't abide and you will be out. I have no fear of that. I will be watching you."

"If you come between us, I will personally make sure that it doesn't happen again," John said not blinking as he stared up into the taller man's eyes.

Sherlock was waiting at the top of the stairs as John came back. "You should have let me break his face, John. He was to blame for all of this to begin with."

"What and hurt your hand, who'll play the violin for me if you break your hand? Is he really worth the pain and effort? How did you two ever manage not to kill each other off as youngsters?"

"Here," Sherlock handed John his Browning and helped him into his jacket. Then pulled on his great coat and twined his scarf about his neck.

"What's up?" John tucked his gun into his waist holster and let Sherlock precede him down the stairs. Sherlock ever the taxi magnet had a shiny cab within minutes.

"I've called Lestrade and told him to meet us at Bethnal Commons. I believe our serial killer is using it as a base and we might be able to lay a trap for him."

They were quiet in the cab. John could feel the adrenaline pumping and he reached out to squeeze Sherlock's hand. Sherlock was focused and ready to do the Work. It was a total body rush, this chasing through the back streets of London, looking for mad men that inhabited the dark side. Murderers, madmen and thieves, John could sing a little ditty about it all. The song of Sherlock Holmes, John would have to write that one, he could always count on his consulting lover to help him bring up a tune.

They got to the commons and were joined by Lestrade and his people. Evening approached it would be getting dark and cold soon.

"What makes you think this is his lair, Sherlock?" Lestrade was as eager as his consulting detective to get this killer off the streets.

"These retired industrials are riddled with compounds specific to their earlier functions. Trace amounts were found on all of the bodies. I've been collecting data via our homeless network and trying to narrow down the exact location. We will find him here. Our Mad Man is a bad one, Lestrade. He's a thrill killer targeting random strangers with no rhyme or reason that we can determine as of yet and constantly changing his modus operandi. We need to catch him fast, he's progressing now, his cooling down periods getting shorter and shorter."

"What do you want us to do here?" Lestrade was more than willing to start working Sherlock's plan.

"This series of seven warehouses will contain his lair. We need to systematically search them, when his lair is found I need to view it before anyone else. I need more data before I can further extrapolate on his next activity."

"Donovan, I want our people to begin grid searches of these warehouses. I want everyone to check in at regular intervals and I want no one to touch anything they find. Just call it in and stay the hell out of harm's way. We are dealing with a killer who is malicious."

"Aye, Guv," Sally turned to begin the leg work that would find the 'Madman Murderer' as the press had dubbed him. As one early DI had said that he'd have to be mad man to do what he was doing to people.

(-_-)

Sherlock was aiding in the hunt and finding nothing to add to his already confirmed data. He hated this tedious part of the process. John was also helping in the walk out and Sherlock missed him at his side. Darkness had fallen and the light of his torch was all there was in these hallowed out factory shells.

Sherlock turned the corner of the next position on his grid and stopped in his tracks. There on the floor, in the light of his torch, a black coat. Torn and covered in blood. It looked like John's coat, how could that be? What was John's coat doing here? Sherlock hurried to the coat and knelt down to take a closer look. Everything went black.

(-_-)

John answered his mobile on the first ring.

"John, Sherlock hasn't checked in. I'm sending men into his area C-2," Lestrade said concern in his voice.

Within forty-five minutes Sherlock's entire grid had been searched and he was not to be found. Nothing had been found.

"Lestrade, I'd hate to think that this was a trap for Sherlock, but I can't see Sherlock taking off without at least texting us about what he was up to." John was unable to control his agitation. He couldn't just find Sherlock in his life, only to lose him to a madman; that wasn't going to happen.

"I've got everyone on alert to find Sherlock. He was our best hope of finding this bastard. Now, without him we're blind. God knows what he'll do to Sherlock. The Murderer has to know that Sherlock is behind the clues that have brought us here."

"I'm going to contact some of his networks and get more people looking for him." John strode away and looked for a cab to take him home.

In the cab back to Baker Street John texted Sherlock again hoping that his hair-brained lover may have just forgotten to text in the heat of the moment.

_Where are you? _

_JW_

John stared at the mobile willing it to reply to his text. Nothing. He placed the mobile back into his jacket pocket. Despair crowded his heart. Sherlock was in deep trouble and he hadn't been there to help him. He'd failed his lover.

The cab came to a halt. "This isn't Baker Street…" the words died on John's lips. Outside a Black Jaguar has cut the cab off and now the rear door came open. John paid the cabbie and exited to enter the Jaguar.

"So you know that Sherlock has been taken?" John spoke as he sat opposite Mycroft.

The elder Holmes was stern and stiff. His eyes like biting steel.

"I received this message ten minutes ago," Mycroft handed his mobile to John and waited as the former Army Captain thumbed the play button on the mobile.

A brief video played, Sherlock lay upon a dark surface, his pale eyes were open but appeared unseeing. His great coat was gone and the photographer circled him as hands removed his suit coat and shirt with a sharp knife. That same blade was drawn down the center of Sherlock's chest, leaving a thin cut that bled but a little. The video ended and a voice disguised electronically spoke.

"Mycroft Holmes, if you value your brother's well being, then I suggest that you follow all future orders with great haste and with no thought of subterfuge."

"So he is to be ransomed," John said handing the mobile back to Mycroft.

"I doubt that very much, Watson. I believe he will be tortured and tormented to bend me to whatever political agenda his captors find advantageous at the time."

"Shit," John said as he sat back into the fine leather of the car seat. He'd seen the mutilated bodies of prior victims.


	5. Chpt 5 Networks

**Near Death pt 5**

**Networks and shaky alliances**

Sherlock came to in the dimly lit room. He was nude from the waist up and he can smell the faint cooper of his own blood. He tries to move and is only successful in millimeters. His body is heavy, his own musculature not working properly at all. Drugs he surmises, but not anything he's had before when he was young and mad, this is totally unfamiliar. He is lying on a dark mat. The room is screened from his view by hanging cloths reminiscent of a hospital suite, but this doesn't smell like a hospital. Above him there is a camera mounted on a circular track that runs from his head down to his feet. The camera has lines feeding out from his enclosure.

Sherlock realizes that what he thought was a serial spree killer was also someone setting a very elaborate trap for a certain consulting detective.

"I am here if you'd like to talk," his words are a bit slurred. His mouth is dry. "Some water would be good right now."

A woman's voice deep and resoundingly sensual speaks from everywhere. "Hello my key, water is on its way."

Sherlock is surprised and delightfully engaged. It was not every day that one comes across a female serial killer and one with designs upon him. "This had to be one of my lucky days," Sherlock says with a hint of astonishment in his voice.

"You have no idea," the calm and soothing voice says with an overarching threat of death standing too near.

(-_-)

John has put word out for Scout one of Sherlock's trusted young lieutenants to contact him. Via Sherlock's computer web site he asks Serpent's Tooth, Sherlock's association of computer hackers, to help him extract Sherlock from the Mad Man murderer. Against his better judgment, he has even told Mycroft that he wants to work together. Finding Sherlock, it seems is one thing the lover and brother can agree on. Sherlock would have a snit if he found out, but John didn't give a fig, getting Sherlock home and safe was all that mattered.

Briefing Scout in the flat, John set him off to bring the homeless network up to speed. As Scout was exiting the flat John's phone rang, the number was blocked.

"Watson," John answered in his captain's voice. No nonsense.

"Ah, Doctor, you do have that military command in your voice. This is the voice of insanity calling," the mechanically augmented voice was set to the scratching on the black board level and John immediately pulled his computer close and signaled Lestrade and Serpent's Tooth. All sound on the computer was on mute so as not to give away his actions.

"If it isn't the voice of death come to gloat over how easy you pulled your fast one?" John was mentally counting the seconds and hoping to keep the killer on the line as long as possible.

"No, my pet, I'm here to let you know that you are my next victim. What a joy to have Sherlock watch his lover die at my hands, raped and tortured, taking a quick bath in your still warm blood will unhinge him. Come on John, Sherlock and I are waiting for you."

"Just tell me where the fuck you are and I'll make it a point to turn up on your door step." John was livid. He wanted to put a bullet in serial killers brain in the worse way.

"Walk the streets of London, John, I'm sure to find you." The line went dead and John turned to his computer flicking the volume up.

"Did you get a fix on the call," John asked?

"Still working on it," Lestrade stated.

"John," Cindy from Serpent's Tooth spoke. "We've got at track on it, but it's binging all over the globe. We'll keep on it but this is not some amateur. It's too sophisticated for one person that we wouldn't be aware of, we'd know about someone with this level of tech ability."

John didn't bother with calling Mycroft, he knew the git was monitoring calls and would be the first to break silence if there was really something new.

Checking his Browning, adding extra clips to his jacket pocket, John checked the remote temperature sensor. It was cold out he'd need a jumper, coat, hat and warm gloves.

"John, what are you doing, you're so quiet," Cindy spoke from the computer. "Tell me you're not going to do something stupid?"

"I'm going after Sherlock."

"You are going to walk into the murderers trap? Would Sherlock want that?" Cindy was trying to get John to calm down.

"The murderer's trap is where Sherlock is and I can't save him from the safety of Baker Street." John was not being moved from his resolve.

"He wants you to do this, John. We have no idea how many he has killed. You won't help Sherlock if you are dead." Cindy was distraught that she could not stop John, being just a voice on the computer.

"My mind is set, Cindy, so you can talk all the rubbish you want. I must go."

Cindy heard John gather his belongings and the door closing with a hard slam.

(-_-)

Mycroft heard from his agents that John was on the move.

"He doesn't appear to have a destination," Anthea said not looking up from her Blackberry. "Do you want us to 'pick him up', Sir?

"No, follow him. Do not lose him. He is crucial to this extraction. His connection with Sherlock may be the one thing that the murderer cannot suss. Maybe I was too hasty in my decision that Sherlock didn't need the company of dangerous men. Maybe a dangerous man is what we all need right now.

(-_-)

Soon a man dressed in non-descript clothing, but wearing a mask that obscures his face totally enters Sherlock's enclosure. He has a squirt bottle and lifts Sherlock's head slightly to administer the water he requested.

Sherlock is further intrigued. A serial killer with minions to do her bidding and a rather well financed 'hide out'; so not a slimy degenerate, but a person of some power, wealth and not a degenerate at all.

When his captor came at last her continence was very 'normal'. She was not overly anything. Smallish as John was to him. Her hair a light brown, eyes dark brown, she was dressed in clothes that gave no inkling of who she was. Easily she could have blended in walking down the streets of London. Just another 'normal' female face in the crowd.

"We meet at last, the great Sherlock Holmes. It will be my very great pleasure to take your life as slowly as I can."

"And your name?" Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to lift himself up.

She came forward then, holding a small glass rod in her hand latex gloved hands. She held Sherlock's left eye open by holding the eyelids apart and touched the wet end of the rounded glass rod end to the corner of his eye. Then with each beat of his heart Sherlock felt the chemical substance reverberate throughout his body and though it affected his major muscles, his breathing and heart beat seemed unaffected.

"Fascinating." He murmured as he felt his control over his body go somewhere else.

"A special blend of my own, leaving the autonomic system untouched."

"You are not the master here, but merely another minion, a lowly killer worker bee."

"How astute you are, Mister Holmes. I am but a servicer to a greater brilliance than my own."

"You are the serial killer, rapist and dismember of how many people?" Sherlock wanted to glean as much information from his captor as possible.

"I've killed twelve people that you know of and nearly 200 in my somewhat small career." She turned and as she did her minion came forth and took the glass rod from her hand and then vanished back behind the surrounding curtains.

"I am very interested in who would support you in your enterprises?"

"My master does not like to get his hands dirty, but he is quite appreciative of my skill sets." Her brown eyes shown as she speaks of her 'master'.

"A sadistic voyeur who doesn't worry about social mores, how interesting: yet another factoid about this rather bizarre and delightful case."

"And you shall be the center piece of my new line of work for my master. He finds that your brother has been very intractable and hard to manipulate. Now with you under my control, I think he will listen to my master with a more fervent understanding. You may call me LT that is what my master calls me.

"A female serial killer within my view," Sherlock had to gather more data on L. This could take a long time. Then he remembered John. "I'd like to contact John. He'll be worried about me. I worry that he will do something drastic."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible and anyway, I'm pretty sure he's on his way here."

John, Sherlock thought to himself, please don't do anything stupid.

(-_-)

John was walking the cold streets of a typical London night. As the night grew colder and people disbursed to their homes, he found himself alone. Traffic moved past in starts and fits as the lights changed, but foot traffic was getting sparse. Two men advanced toward him. They were not just men out for a walk. John could see by the way they carried themselves; they were coming at him, no angling away at all. This was the plan to pick up John and take him to where the serial killer was holding Sherlock. Since when did serial killers have little helpers? This case was getting stranger by the minute. John thought about whether he should use plan A or B.

"What the fuck," John said as he rammed into the two thugs full force. "I'm feeling really lucky tonight, let's go with plan F."

(-_-)

Mycroft was sitting at his desk; a text had just come through from an unknown point of origin. [Go to this URL at 10:30 PM to view your little brother. I'm sure you will be more than happy to do my bidding after our first session,] the text said.

The time was near. Mycroft entered the URL into his computer and watched as Sherlock's form came into view. He was still on the dark mat. He was not bound in any way, but he was gagged and awake; his eyes moving from the camera to the individual working on him.

A piece of rubber tubing was place around Sherlock's neck. The tubing grew tight and tighter. Sherlock was trying desperately to pull in breath, his coloring going pallid, seconds passed like hours then a tinge of blue crept onto his lips and face. The screen went blank.

An altered voice came across the computer. "The list that follows, court dates, world trade commissions, positions opening in the governmental hierarchy; all these and many other matters are all within your purview. You WILL augment the directions indicated by the lists demands. Or I will start sending you small pieces of your brother and I believe I will begin with his tongue and his prick, a thin slice at a time. Understood?"

"Clearly understood." Mycroft was pallid himself. He'd never seen Sherlock helpless at the hands of a madman before. "Most decidedly understood."


	6. Chpt 6 Master's Degree in Murder

**Near Death pt 6**

**A Master's degree in Murder**

Sherlock is helpless in the hands of the serial killer L, but he is still collecting data, he wants to be ready. John will come for him. The crazy bugger will come, there is no way to stop him. Sherlock keeps his eyes and ears open, calculating, categorizing and quantifying all incoming information. It isn't looking good, but then L hasn't sussed John Watson. He is a force of nature, a fucking dangerous man Mycroft had called him and heaven help the serial killer who stood between John and his Sherlock.

(-_-)

L looked into the webcam in front of her. She stood wide legged, solid and sure of her position as she listened to her master. Eyes blazing with intensity, her lover of all lovers caresses her with his malignancy.

"Prep him. I want to begin our onslaught of Mycroft Holmes at midnight tonight. I want him to come crawling on his knees to me. I want to OWN him before morning L."

L worshipped him. He was not in any way out of the ordinary; not overly tall or spectacularly handsome. His soft Irish brogue was lilting and pure until he was roused then he became thunder and death. They were a matched set of dark hearts. She would maim, murder, rape and destroy her victims all the while recording her activities so, at his leisure, he could watch her great acts of destructive art; watch as she dealt death making it a glorious conflagration of blood splatters, cracked bones, rendered flesh and the screeching screams of the tortured. She wanted for nothing; he gave her all that she desired. And she, she gave him all the filthy, wretched death he could ever want, all without getting his hands dirty. He had many disciples L was his favorite, his special, high-most as she proved her worth again and again by being the most prolific of all his murderers. She wasthe most blood thirsty and outrageous of his whole stable and master adored her.

(-_-)

Sherlock felt the drug losing its potency, his systems finally coming back on line. The curtains parted and L came in with heavy duty scissors, the type used to cut people out of their clothes in emergency rooms. She proceeded to remove the remainder of his clothing – and ended by strapping his wrists and ankles with hospital grade leather restrains to the dark on which he rested.

"Are we commencing with the more ruthless level of your torture upon my person? Your master is determined to use me against my brother, but I think you'll find him not easily manipulated."

L smiles as she takes a leather cradle strap out from under the platform. She puts Sherlock's head into the leather contraption and secures him, now movement is impossible.

"I think you will find that my techniques are much more provocative than your average serial killer," L's eyes shine with a predator's ferocity.

"You've been doing this a long time, you proficiency with knives and scalpels indicates that you've had professional training, not butchering, but a forensics back ground. You know a great deal about chemistry, not just simple anesthetics, but neuro-blocking agents, neurotoxins. Who would train a serial killer in the chemistry and biology of death? You are the world's first 21st century serial killer, with a master's degree in murder. Did you start out pulling the wings off birds? Then move on to any small living thing you could get your hands on?" Sherlock is right on the money. He can see it in her response, her body language. She's alive with the memories of all her kills.

"You are very bright, Sherlock Holmes. I will make sure to leave your tongue for last so that I can hear your beautiful voice break with the incredible screaming you will do."

"I can hardly wait." Sherlock says in a voice filled with sarcasm.

L places medical tape over Sherlock's eyes closing them against sight. "A little darkness for you, my pretty." She applies ear plugs to his ears. "No more data entry for you." She is ready to begin her session. All she needs is the word from her master.

Without sight or sound, Sherlock is bereft. He focuses attention to his skin and sense of smell. Skin is the largest and most sensitive of the body's organs and the nose completely underutilized. It is agony with loss of input. His mind races and rockets careening off itself with lack of stimulus. He starts to tremble, not in fear of torture, but of the sight and soundlessness he is lost in. He retreats to his Mind Palace going deep into its confines and looks for John - his image of John stands there in center of all that Sherlock is; he throws himself into the arms of the smaller man.

'Save me John,' he thinks, 'I can bare the torture, but my mind will self-destruct in the void!'

(-_-)

Mycroft sits at his desk, his many agents and operatives doing double time trying to find the younger Holmes. Highest priority has been set. The Queen is now second tier to Sherlock Holmes, at least for the few hours while she sleeps. His assistant gives a soft knock at his door and enters.

"All areas of surveillance are activated and agents are on stand-by." Anthea speaks in solemn tones her face barely lifted from her Blackberry. She is aware that Sherlock is a pain in his brother's arse, but Mycroft's fierce brotherly protection all but fills the room.

"Thank you," he says not looking up from his computer. The screen comes alive directly at midnight. Sherlock is nude upon the same dark pad as before. He is restrained and as the camera moves in for a close up, Mycroft can see that his eyes and ears have been compromised. He is aware of how important input is to Sherlock. This is more of a torture than any physical damage that they could do. If they keep him this way for any length of time, he will surly go mad.

"Can you see your brother Mycroft," the disguised voice prompts? "How shall I begin? Would you like me to deliver a small piece of him to your door? Shall I inject micro doses of acid beneath his skin and let you watch as he is consumed with the burns, each going infectious and purulent; taking his life with fever, delirium and agonizing pain? The choices are endless aren't they? Latex gloved hands move over Sherlock's body as he flinches from the touch as a horse flicks the muscles beneath its skin.

"Mycroft, don't you dare compromise your asinine…" Sherlock's words are cut off as a gag is thrust into his mouth.

A stainless steel pin attached to a strong hanging wire is hammered into Sherlock's sternum. Then the pin is pulled up toward the ceiling. Sherlock's body weight is being held up by his own rib cage his muffled cries easily heard in the silent room.

"How long before his passes out from the pain, Mycroft?" The altered voice asks with a touch of a humor in it.

The screen freezes on that image as Mycroft lets go of the breath he is holding. "Any word," Mycroft's eyes don't leave the screen. His brother faces death and he is helpless.

"The feed is being traced. No overt signs of where the point of origin is as of yet. Everyone is working, sir." Anthea is as disturbed as her boss.

"Where is John Watson? I want to know where he is?"

She touches the ear bud in her right ear and taps her Blackberry. "He's been taken, sir. We have operatives in pursuit."

"I want him retrieved, damn it. I want him NOW." There is no doubt that Mycroft will have his way.


	7. Chpt 7 Ordinary Man

**Near Death pt 7**

**Ordinary Man  
**

John Watson looks like an ordinary man. You'd never know by looking at him that he could hold his own in hand to hand combat with more than a couple of deadly blokes. His bulky jumpers, his window pane shirts, black leather Haversack shooting jacket and classic Loake boots all give John a disguise within a disguise. The soft, warm doctor's smile hides a soldier who can turn into an assassin extraordinaire from nought to light speed. John is the perfect partner for Sherlock Holmes. He is everything that Sherlock needs in his life both personally and professionally and Sherlock is John's wet dream. So when the bad guys kidnap 'his' Sherlock, they were _really_ asking for a lot of bull shit, a whole lot of bullshit.

(-_-)

John didn't need a lot of equipment to get his badass on. He walked into L's trap with his eyes open. He let the two heavy's sent to get him – get him. They took his Browning. They patted him down assuming he was helpless, under their control and then the shite hit the fan. He didn't even break a sweat as he took the heavy's down with calculated moves that would have made Sherlock hot. (The consulting lover is really impressed when his man of action goes into action). With the tiniest bit of persuasion he finds out where they were holding Sherlock and sticks both the baddies into the boot of their own car (it is an extremely tight fit). Then he waits impatiently for his 'tails' to catch up to him.

"It took you long enough," John complains as his tails finally arrive. "We are going to go in silent and fast and if Sherlock is so much as scratched; there will be blood, do I make myself clear?" The four agents nod in the affirmative and watch with new appreciation as the short man turns and gets into his captors car and drives toward the killer's lair. John has confiscated the two guns carried by the heavies in the boot so he is well armed and confidence is high that Sherlock will be home in Baker Street soon.

"I'd hate to be anyone in Watson's way," says agent Keller.

(-_-)

An audio on Mycroft's computer opens up.

"Mycroft," even altered this voice is softer, more demanding than the original. Mycroft determines the voice is not the same person who originally spoke to him. "This is only the beginning of a rather messy session of torture if you don't follow my orders, your brother will suffer for your lack of cooperation."

The printer at Anthea's desk comes to life and begins spitting out pages.

"Sir," Anthea rushes to her computer, viewing the pages being processed. "He's gotten into our systems. I'm putting everything on lock down; firewalls have definitely been breached."

Mycroft stands in the doorway of his office as the printer continues to disgorge page after page of demands.

"This isn't our serial killer; this is collusion between the killer and someone else." Mycroft plucks the pages from the printer and takes them into his office. He closes the door and Anthea knows he is not to be disturbed. The image of his baby brother bound to the platform, sightless, without sound and pulled toward the ceiling by the pin in his chest remains on his computer screen. Mycroft isn't a man of emotion. It's always been Queen and Country and damn the rest. But this is Sherlock, the fragile child, the rebel teen, the brilliant but damaged young man and now an adult who shows promise and finally focus. How does he let him suffer because of the demands of a madman? Does he rescind his position and let someone else make these hard decisions? This is Sherlock his only brother; his blood.

There is a gentle knock at the door.

"Come," Mycroft answers.

"Sir, word from our agents following Watson, they have found him and he knows where your brother is being held. Apparently, Watson is taking lead and they are going in for an extraction."

"Who placed him in charge? Get me Keller on the line. I want to know who authorized this fiasco?"

Anthea turns to put through her boss' call. 'Ah, heads will roll or someone will get the Victoria Cross,' she thinks as Keller comes on the line.

"Line one, sir." Anthea says as she shuts Mycroft's door. No one will want to hear the scathing exchange.

(-_-)

Keller is trying to keep Watson in sight (shite, for a man with a dodgy leg, he can move like wind on water) and listen to the caustic commentary coming through his earwig from Holmes senior. Wonderful. They are in a regular rabbit warren of rooms and hallways of an old chemical treatment plant. Some of the interior has been upgraded, but much of the building is time worn and filled with the detritus of its discarded history.

Keller, Shrives, Anders and Keaton fan out behind Watson who is taking point in a way which shows this is not his first covert ops. He is fast, ruthless and most importantly, he is the most effective point man Keller has worked with. Keller isn't about to follow anyone, he's experienced in the field and has done his share of extractions. Watson's already told them if ANY harm comes to the younger Holmes there would be hell to pay. Holmes the senior made it clear that if Junior was even slightly breathless from this lift out everyone concerned could kiss their collective arses good bye. So there is no wiggle-room here; failure is not an option.

"Where the hell is he?" Keaton is practically running to keep up with Watson. There are bodies on the ground and they aren't just unconscious, they are annihilated. This is a take no prisoners scenario and with this type of serial killer, Keller isn't going to cry over split blood. This is not a serial killers lair; this is an organized slaughter house of horrors.

(-_-)

Sherlock wanders the expanse of his Mind Palace. He holds John's hand and moves from place to place – lost.

'I can't remember where I am, John. It all looks the same,' Sherlock thinks.

'I'm on my way Sherlock,' the image of John speaks words of comfort. 'I'll be with you soon.'

'Hurry, John, please hurry.'

Sherlock's thoughts usually ordered and logical slip tangled and twisted into chaos. Sherlock is overwhelmed, bordering on distraught. He should be safe here in his sanctum sanctorum. Nothing should be able to touch him here. Only John, John is here with him. John will keep him safe. He turns to face his only friend, his lover.

'Give me your hand, love.' John's voice is low and tremulous. His dangerous doctor has become the bedrock of Sherlock's Mind Palace; their bond is the one thing in Sherlock's short life he knows he can trust and depend on.

(-_-)

John approaches the lab where Sherlock is being held. L's minions helped him navigate the rat's maze of rooms. How many serial killers have minions, a warren and the money to keep it all afloat? John is far ahead of Mycroft's men and he enters the torture room to find his greatest fears. He tears down one of the curtains surrounding Sherlock covering him then removes a Jackknife from his pocket and cuts Sherlock free of his restraints. Finally the tape is lifted from his eyes and the ear plugs are gently removed.

"My god, they have used you poorly, my love." John examines the pin driven into Sherlock's sternum and hops up on top of the platform to disengage the hanging chain.

Keller and Keaton enter the torture chamber finding Watson has Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the platform and is wrapping him in one of the room's curtains.

"Keaton, you and I are taking Sherlock back to the car I came in, careful his chest is injured."

"Anything else we can do for you Captain?" Keller asks. He's not going to stop the Captain from pursuing his agenda.

"No, I'm retiring to Baker Street with Sherlock. Should you require me for any reason, you will find us there. My full report on this incident will be sent to you via email by tomorrow morning."

"You are not taking Mister Holmes to A and E," Keller asks?

"Not unless I have to, good luck on your clean up, gentlemen. Do try to find the serial killer if at all possible. You have more personal on the way?"

"The entire area will be engulfed in moments. Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Captain."

"You are entirely welcomed, Agent Keller." Watson helps Keaton assist Sherlock out to the car.

Keller sees that Watson's dodgy leg is finally impeding him. Keller is relieved that Holmes junior is alive and well. His assignment is complete; let Watson bear the responsibility of Sherlock Holmes' further care.

(-_-)

Keaton accompanies Watson to Baker Street after they have taken Sherlock up stairs; he leaves retrieving the car with baddies in the boot and removes them to a secure location.

Alone with Sherlock, John does a thorough examination of his body. The slight cut down the chest, the offensive pin in his sternum which is removed with pliers is all he can find. He is supremely happy as he had feared worst atrocities but there is no other sign of trauma. Sherlock is quiet and unavailable during the rescue and even now when he is safe at home.

"Come my tall goose, we are going to take a shower and get you cleaned up." John strips and with care gets Sherlock up and nudges him into the loo. A quick and thorough shower is given and then a drying and still Sherlock is quiet. John wraps a towel around his own waist and gets Sherlock to bed. He attends to the wound on Sherlock's chest and settles him in comfortably.

Mrs. Hudson comes up at his request and takes an envelope downstairs and holds it for pick up by one of Keller's men. She is so happy her boys are back in Baker Street.

"You're home safe, Sherlock." John cocoons the young brunette in warming blankets and finally tends to himself. Then lying next to Sherlock he takes him in his arms and begins to sing a simple lullaby. Tenderly he hums the melody. Not demanding Sherlock speak, merely being there and available for Sherlock's needs. He knows Sherlock has retreated to his Mind Palace, going in and coming out takes some quiet time.

(-_-)

Sherlock moves without purpose through his Mind Palace. Not wanting to return to the vacuum of L's torture room. 'I wonder if she knows the lack of data was more disastrous to me than any pain she could have inflicted?' Sherlock thinks as he leads the image of John through the circuitous staircases and endless halls of the palace. There is emptiness in the palace today. The normally warm lighting and grand vaulted ceilings seem cramped and dull with only suffused illumination which does not fill the eyes with awed beauty.

'How much longer John, before we are reunited?' Sherlock thinks it can't be soon enough. He practices his measured breathing to calm his racing heart, his near shattered nerves. In a mist of conscious thought, Sherlock perceives a Scottish lullaby drifting in from all around him. He stands still, melody and voice soothe his brain and he feels touch coming through his senses. The touch is like no other; it's John. He is singing to Sherlock, touching his face and holding him close. John is out there. Sherlock struggles to move away from his sanctuary. To return to his body; like swimming upstream he takes a deep breath and wills his eyes to open, to be fully present where John is.

John waits, patient as ever he has to be. He knows Sherlock will return to him, will always return to him. He sings and his eyes fill with tears as he holds Sherlock close to his heart. Tears fall onto Sherlock's face.

"Rain," Sherlock whispers.

Startled John pulls Sherlock away from his chest to examine his face. Those silver-grey-green-blue eyes open and John laughs and crushes Sherlock to him.

"Not rain, m'dear," John showers Sherlock's face with kisses. "How's the Mind Palace doing?"

"It's lonely without you John; you need to move in permanently." Sherlock is wide eyed as his senses come back on line. He takes a deep breath. His lover is warm and wrapped around him; the ordeal is over.

"I knew you'd come," Sherlock gave one of his infrequent smiles, blissfully happy.

"I'll always come for you, but going forward you are not going to have to deal with these situations because you are not leaving my sight, Sherlock. Got it?"

The consulting lover will not protest; not ever.

(-_-)

As Sherlock sleeps, John leaves the bed only long enough to get his lap top. He is exhausted from the long worry over Sherlock's absence from his side and the rescue from hell. He writes up his report on what he knows of the serial killer and what transpired during the rescue. He wants to know about the stainless steel pin he pulled from Sherlock's chest. He removed it carefully. There were prints on it, the killer had been careless.

He placed his Browning at his bedside table, knowing Mycroft is also on high alert. Sherlock will be under heavy guard where ever he went and, of course, he will always have his doctor to watch over him.

John's mobile chimes as a text appears on screen.

**Anthea: Serial killer is identified. Orphaned as toddler and later placed under psychiatric care due to early diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder. Individual is to be considered extremely dangerous. Disappeared from locked facility at age 10 never heard from again.**

**JW: Did Keller capture the killer?**

**Anthea: No. SHE got away.**

**JW: She? A female serial killer? What was her name?**

**Anthea: Lucky Thymes.**

**JW: You're shitting me?**

**Anthea: No**

John ended the call, finishes his report and sends it to Keller's email. He shuts everything down as he snuggles into the heat that is Sherlock Holmes. He is satisfied balance has been brought back into the world, his lover has suffered only minor physical and mental trauma. But the killer is still out there and she is not alone. She has money and minions and her sights set on Sherlock Holmes, a pawn in the chess game between her and Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock curls possessively around John. Sherlock lets out a sigh of pure contentment. John lets his mind slip into dreams. He will follow Sherlock ‒ to the ends of the earth ‒ past the gates of hell ‒ into the jaws of disaster. Whatever it takes to keep his Sherlock alive, John would gladly pay the price…even unto death.

Sherlock slips his long legs, entangling them with John's, pulling him snuggly against his body. He is captured now, in a very good way. It is as if they are one body, one soul, one spirit; safe in their Baker Street, home at last.


	8. Chpt 8 Trafalgar Terror

**Near Death ‒ pt 8**

**Trafalgar Terror**

Sherlock watched _his_ John sleep. He gently slipped John's smaller hand into his. Sherlock knows in his heart John is greater than many men who out strip him in stature. Sherlock has never found a man or a woman, for that matter, that did anything for him. His life is never about caring or connecting. His life is all about challenges and case solving, nothing else ever mattered until John Hamish Watson showed up on Bart's doorstep.

Smiling at his lover/companion/protector/friend he is amazed and amused at the turn of events.

(-_-)

LJ stood before her master. Her eyes are not down cast. She stares into his eyes and doesn't wither beneath his deadly gaze.

"L, I'm very disappointed in your handling of the Mycroft Holmes project." The master whispered his very calm, menacing disapproval.

"The project was proceeding as per your request. It wasn't until this man entered into my space. She pulls up the camera footage of John as he enters the derelict building and proceeds to dispatch L's people pretty much single handedly.

"I want you to find out everything you can about this man L. I want to know why he's so adept at destroying my plans."

"As you desire, I will find out everything." L said with danger in her eyes. She didn't like to appear less than perfect in front of her master.

"And call Alistair. Tell him I have a job for him."

L is terrifically upset. If the master is going to use Alistair instead of her, she is going to make the interloper with the dodgy leg pay and pay big time for her dishonor. Losing master's favor is unacceptable.

(-_-)

It was a cold, rainy, windswept day. Trafalgar square isn't the tourist magnet it is on more temperate days. Still there were people with umbrellas making their way through the wet. Sherlock and John were traversing the square on the way to meeting an informant. As they come close to one of the fountains high powered sniper fire punctuates the air. Sherlock spins with the force of a bullet strike and collapses onto the wet pavement. John ploughs into Sherlock shoving him into the small sheltered space at the base of the fountain.

Screaming. People are screaming as a deluge of rain begins drowning out the sound of human terror filling the square.

Sherlock wavers back into consciousness. He is crammed into an angle of marble on his left side; someone is on top of him. Pressure. Someone is pressing hard onto his right thigh. Painful pressure.

"John?" Sherlock seeks his lover reaching out to push the pressure away.

Pop! Pop! Pop! The screaming intensifies. POP! POP! Silence.

"Sherlock, hold still. Don't move!" John's voice cuts through Sherlock's mental confusion. He stills instantly, not questioning John's command.

"Where are we, what's happening?" Sherlock is wet, confused and in terrible pain.

"We're in the square, remember? By the fountain. There's a sniper on the Canada building. You're hit. I have to press hard, Sherlock. I have to stop the bleeding." John lifts his mobile with his free hand and speed dials Mycroft's number. Anthea answers and he tells her of their immediate need for assistance.

"John, it hurts. It hurts like hell." Sherlock can feel himself begin to fade.

In the pelting rain the cries began. People are crying for help; screaming in their own private, painful hells.

John takes his jacket off and drapes it over Sherlock, elevating his feet concerned about shock. He leans over to examine the consulting lover. Sherlock smiles his best little boy smile. John is angry and full of aggression. Sherlock is injured and John rankles at not being able to take action. John catches Sherlock's smile. In this shitty situation it is a welcomed reminder of Sherlock's love.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

One of the bullets comes too close and fragments of the fountains marble showers the lovers. John completely covers Sherlock with his body. A small shard of marble strikes his cheek, dangerously close to his right eye.

"John, you have to get out of here." Sherlock begins, his hand coming up to touch the facial wound. "You're hurt."

"Sherlock, we are leaving this place together or not at all. Got that?" John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezs it firmly. "We are going to get out of this. I will get us out of this. Do you understand?"

"Hey, you at the fountain, you okay?" A far away masculine voice shouts.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

"Shit, he's killing the wounded." John says as he views the killing field the square has become.

"My friend's wounded, losing blood." John shouts back.

"Hang on." the distant voice calls. "Police are on the way."

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

All around him John can see the carnage. His heart is racing, his adrenalin pumping but he can do nothing.

"John, are you there?"

"I'm here, Sherlock. It's okay, you need to rest."

"John, I'm cold." Sherlock whispers. "I'm so cold."

Shock.

"Sherlock, I have to press harder on the wound. I have to stop the bleeding, do you hear me?"

The icy rain now turns to sheets and torrents of water hitting the pavement. John is shivering too, his clothes clinging to him. Sherlock is pale. John presses deeper into the wound. Sherlock shutters with the pain and then falls silent.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" There is an edge of alarm in John's voice. The bleedings stopped, at least from the outside.

"Please, Sherlock. Please." John places his head against the brunette's chest. The heart beat is slow, but steady. "Stay with me, love. Help is on the way."

Scanning the roof tops John knows where the madman is. Mycroft's people should be the hell here by now. John feels the tremors of anger assault him. He wants to rage against the senselessness of this senseless act.

Holding Sherlock, hoping the warmth of his body will hold the shock at bay. He wants to scream for back-up. He wants to carry Sherlock to safety. He wants to gut shoot the bastard who is above them; killing the innocents below.

From above a helicopter angles into the square and sirens fill the air with their welcomed pervasive sounds. It seems as if they have been there for hours, but as John glances at his watch, it had only been 13 minutes. Gun fire erupts; Mycroft's people are engaging the sniper. Continued fire ruptures the skies above their heads.

"John?"Sherlock speaks in a breathy, softly voice. John strains to hear his words.

"I'm here, Sherlock."

"My love. I'm sorry I never say those words often enough."

John feels tears gather behind his eyes, but he would not submit to them.

"It's going to be okay, Sherlock. Mycroft's‒," he stops mid-sentence. Sherlock's hand comes up to caress his fair hair with the tenderness of a long time lover.

"Stay with me, Sherlock. Don't go. Don't ever go." John's words are like a mantra and when Sherlock looks into John's eyes he sees a fierce possessive passion there which never ceases to amaze.

John watches as Sherlock's eyes lose focus. He kisses Sherlock's unresponsive lips.

"Damn." John speaks softly, the rage inside him ready to burst.

Then, at the edge of the square, men in Kevlar vests with helmets bearing medical insignias are coming into the square in pairs carrying the wounded out, god bless them.

Again, the gun fire from above draws the snipers attention as the paramedics brave the plaza pulling and carrying people to the safety and shelter of the surrounding buildings.

"What we got?" A young man Sherlock's age crouchs next to John and Sherlock, his badge says his name is Wyatt.

"I'm Dr. John Watson, there's possible arterial damage. I'll keep pressure on."

Wyatt begins checking Sherlock's vitals. "Stan stretcher pronto." Wyatt yells at his approaching companion.

"I can't thank you enough," John says.

"The fat lady hasn't sung yet, Doctor. We got to get him out of here first." Wyatt smiles with positive reassurance as the gun fire stops.

With the utmost care, Stan and Wyatt lift Sherlock onto a light-weight stretcher and the three men carry Sherlock out of danger.

Stan and Wyatt place the stretcher onto a gurney and strap Sherlock to it.

"I'm a trauma surgeon," John says as they lift Sherlock into the ambulance. "I'll take care of the initial triage."

"Dr. Watson, caring for your friend is our responsibility now. We can't let you do that," Wyatt comments.

Stan went to the driver's door, entering the ambulance turning the engine over.

John began hooking Sherlock up to monitors, hanging a bag of Ringers on the hook above him, looking for a good vein to infuse him.

John gives Wyatt a Captains glare and continues with his fast and very efficient triage and stabilization of the patient. Wyatt just sits back and watches as a Doctor who obviously knows this business better than Wyatt does, treats the patient.

(-_-)

At the hospital Sherlock is treated in emergency given a mild sedative at his Doctor's insistence. Then with the patient calmly unaware he is admitted and placed in a secured room.

"He will be angry at your interference." Mycroft admonishes as he enters the corridor. John is talking to the minion guard who is outside Sherlock's room.

"I'll risk his anger. He would have made this all more difficult than it should be."

"So you are sure that this was not a terrorist attack." Mycroft sits on one of the available uncomfortable chairs. John takes one close by.

"Sherlock was the first hit, it was an easy kill shot, but he was only incapacitated. Then the other victims‒the killer was playing with them, shooting to maim, then later to murder. This was an act of mass murder with the intent of harming Sherlock. This smacks of LJ's malicious desire to further control you, Mycroft. What about the sniper?"

"Unbelievably, he vanished. No CCTV coverage, he evaporated like the rain clouds that converged over the square. We have no clues or leads anywhere."

"Sherlock needs to be protected, Mycroft."

"Understood." Mycroft stood straightened his vest and buttoned his suit coat. "Thank you, once again, for keeping him alive."

"No one harms him. No one." John stood moving back into Sherlock's room as Mycroft made his way back into the real world.

(-_-)

"John, I want to go home." Sherlock muttered looking up through long lashed glasz colored eyes that made John quiver inside.

"We'll be going home in a week or so." John says as he caresses the riot of curly hair that threatens to take over Sherlock's face.

"Now, John. This place is unsanitary, odiferous, and most likely hazardous to our health. And we can't shag in this small bed."

John looks smugly confident that Sherlock will learn that his _Doctor_ is better than any situation. One perfect and purposefully gentle shag later.

"I want to go home, John. If I stay here I put the other patients at risk. You know I'm right."

John exhales dramatically. "We can't go home either, Baker Street isn't defendable, love."

"I think I know some place that will work for us."

John gives Sherlock that look, the one he reserves for tempting tidbits that he is going to completely devour. "Where?"

"The Holmes estate."


	9. Chpt 9 Let sleeping dogs Lie

**Near Death pt 9**

**Let Sleeping Dogs ****Lie**

John gunned the BMW Adventure sport motorcycle; Sherlock squeals like a little kid and grips John terrifically hard about his midsection as the cycle lunges forward. John seems to be gunning the engine a lot on the way to the Holmes mansion. Is he trying to get his consulting lover to repeatedly hug him? Sherlock pushes his long, strong hands down John's chest and further down to his inner thighs and John pops a wheelie as Sherlock clings limpid like to keep from falling off the back of the motorcycle.

Their clothes are making the trip to the mansion via a long black Jaguar which is bringing up the rear. The motorcycle is a gift from Sherlock's brother. It is evident the Holmes family is, shall we say, 'loaded'. They came through the front gate an hour and a half ago and still no sign of the mansion. John calculates he really didn't want to know just how rich the Holmes' family is. All he knows is this mansion is supposedly defendable. Until they find L, Sherlock is constantly at risk. Mycroft has promised people to cover the premises. So for this one time he is going to rely on Sherlock's git of an older brother.

To protect Sherlock, John will align with the devil himself. This feels exactly like that, but John's options are few. At least he has some history with some of Mycroft's field agents. They finally make the front portico of the mansion. It is fucking huge; Mister Darcy's digs looked like a Popsicle stand next to this place. Yeah, Harry had tied him down and sat on him; making him watch 'Pride and Prejudice' not once but twice. Holy shite, what is he getting into with this madman Sherlock Holmes?

A man from the house offers to park his motorcycle in the garage. John politely declines the offer and is shown where to park his baby. Sherlock precedes him into the 'house' and John is escorted to the North wing which apparently is where they will be staying for the duration of their visit; the whole fucking wing.

Opulence. Everywhere there is history and lavish interiors; obvious signs of power, position and very old money.

"Sherlock Holmes, just who the hell are you?" John asks as he places his helmet on the bed side stand and joins his young conspirator on the soft, sweet bed.

"I am the brother of a minor government official." Sherlock smirks and presses close to John placing himself within kissing range.

"You have got to be kidding me, Sherlock. Since when do 'minor government officials' have access to MI6 agents 24/7? Since when do the Holmes' family have enough money to re-float the Titanic? You aren't telling me something?"

Sherlock steals a kiss which is glancing but which John latches onto and turns into an extensive lip lock. Breathing is optional.

Sherlock comes up for minimal amounts of air and stammers back into the thinking world. "We are highly placed in the aristocracy, in the government and internationally our family has a hand in world affairs. If you want specifics‒my mother would be the one to ask, but she's been a minor government official for sixty-five years now." Sherlock pulls John down into another kiss.

"I don't think I want to know." John says with great conviction.

"I don't think you want to know." Sherlock smiles and throws a leg over John engulfing his smaller body with his own.

(-_-)

John can almost imagine they were on vacation, staying at a posh luxury hotel with hot and cold running room service which they will never have to pay for. Aside from John's meetings with the agents tasked to protect Sherlock, they are in their bedroom for three days and four nights before they decide to make an entrance back into the real world.

"Glad you could pull yourself away from‒whatever you needed to put yourself away from," Mycroft comments. His façade of calm and uncaring is barely taxed as he plates some breakfast from the buffet that lines the breakfast room. There is enough food for a dozen people.

"Be nice, Mycroft, or John will take me away and you'll never find us." Sherlock is being snide.

"Would you do that John? Would you be able to protect him, alone, without additional aid?" Mycroft raises his intonation on those last words as he stares John down.

"Possibly not," John admits. "But I can hide us even from the likes of you, Mycroft." The challenge is given.

Mycroft sits at the breakfast table as servants pour him coffee which smells like the beans have just been picked off a mountain in Columbia.

John goes to the buffet and plates himself a healthy breakfast. He places it on the table, goes back and taking a smaller plate he adds a few items he then deposits the plate, plus a large cup of tea in front of Sherlock. The tall brunette takes a deep breath, giving John the I'm-not-eating-that-much evil eye.

Sherlock consumes half of what he's served and takes his tea back to his room. There are cold cases as well as current cases coming to his PC. And Mayhew is in charge of all photographic recording of crime scenes for the next six weeks as Anderson did a slip and fall, spraining an ankle. So Sherlock is thrilled as Mayhew has been hand-picked and trained by Sherlock to give the most comprehensive photos possible.

"Okay, he'll be occupied for at least an hour. What is on your mind? I can tell you have something to say." John lifts his cup and drains the last of his tea. Putting it down and contemplating Mycroft's intense glare.

"You appear to be able to read us better than anyone on this hemisphere." Mycroft pulls a memory stick out of his vest pocket. "I've finally found the missing pieces of your life, John Watson."

"I knew it was a matter of time. Your people are not as incompetent as they let on. Are you going to tell Sherlock?" John isn't sure how he feels about this turn of events.

"I think you should tell him yourself. It is, after all, your life." Mycroft is subtly cognizant of his upper hand in these negotiations. "Do you think he will rationalize what you did, is in any way forgivable?"

"I don't know. I guess I'll find out." John stands, pushes his chair back under the table and strides over to Mycroft plucking the memory stick from his cold hand. He turns to walk to the North wing, to open the door, to face Sherlock, to tell him the truth, to watch to see if shock and terror fills those silver grey/blue eyes. Those eyes that he'd come to love in a way that he'd never known before. Dreading every step, he walks slowly, agonizingly to his lover; John's torn shoulder throbs with the remembered bullet that shattered him, with the memory of Charles Champion who killed him. Champion who'd taken away his sanity, his self worth and his ability to be the person that he defined himself as; doctor, soldier, sniper.

(-_-)

The initial blast comes from the North wing. John is flung by the shockwave against the adjacent wall.

"Sherlock!" John shouts as he lifts off the floor and sprints to the now ruined North wing archway. His gun is in their room. Fuck.

Secondary and tertiary blasts rock the mansion, there is gun fire from outside and in. John gets to their room, grips the door handle; it's locked. "Sherlock!" John shouts repeatedly. He kicks at the door and it gives on the fourth lunge. The windows are shattered; there are blood splatter marks across the bed, but no Sherlock. John checks the place thoroughly. Nothing. The windows overlook a garden, a rather large garden and it's in shambles, the blast having compromised part of the building.

Gun in hand John vaults through the window and lands rolling into greenery. Eyes quick and alert he scans the area thoroughly before moving low amongst the vegetation. Thankfully it is thick and in full bloom. Moving, moving he daren't call out for Sherlock. John can hear the distant sound of helicopters looming nearer.

"Where the fuck are you Sherlock?" John whispers to no one. There ahead a form tucked into the base of a large statue. John rushes to Sherlock's side. "You okay?" Doctor mode takes over and John twists Sherlock so he can see him. There are deep cuts on his face from flying glass, but a cursory review shows no severe injury.

"I couldn't get out of the room, John. Someone locked the door. We've got moles in the garden."

"So I noticed. Is there a good place to get out of line of fire till the MI6 cavalry get a grip on what's happening?"

"There is a series of safe rooms below the pantry, but we'll have to go back into the house to get to them."

"Follow me, stay low." John admonishes.

"Do you even know where the pantry is?" Sherlock stays low and follows as John brings them back into the house via a circuitous path. They can hear shots fired but they echo off the interior walls and it is difficult to determine where the sound is emanating from.

(-_-)

The invaders are tasked to find and return with two individuals, they all have a slightly blurry photo of the two men. She only wants them with as little damage as possible. No one will disappoint L. She is a hard mistress and they know to fail is to find a slow and unmerciful death. So they move with precision through the huge mansion. There are many of them and there is strength in their numbers.

Overhead the helicopters are hovering as troops rappel to the ground; coalescing around the outer perimeters of the mansion. The idyllic fields that surround the Holmes estate have become a war zone. There are dead and dying in the ruins of the once beautiful halls. How can this happen, who has the money, the resources and the balls to do this on British soil?

John is very aware that this assault is too well planned and executed. He worries that there is no real safe place here. There had been men in positions all about the parameter of the estate. What happened to all of them? What he sees in the halls and corridors of the mansion is nothing new to him. This is a kill all, not capture sortie. He contemplates what to do next. Where the hell is Mycroft and is it better to leave the confines of the mansion and go to ground in the surrounding countryside?

John keeps Sherlock close. This isn't L, but quite possibly the master mind behind her. Whoever it is has upped his game. John can't count on anyone but himself. Mycroft may have even been killed in this attack. If he is dead what is motivating the killer‒or killers now? You can't manipulate a dead man. What is the new purpose? What does anyone gain by this blood bath?

There are too many questions and not enough answers. This makes John very edgy.

"What do you make of all this Sherlock? You're the genius in the room." John whispers as they take refuge in a niche along the main hall.

"As you have surmised the original tactic to use me as hostage to my brother is no longer valid. I would theorize that this is more to engage or enrage my family. More revenge than an actual plan of action. There isn't enough data to give good summations."

The gun fire is getting closer. Then men in suits, guns drawn, ear pieces predominate in their right ears, come from around a corner. They look to be Mycroft's minions. John thrusts Sherlock behind him.

"John Watson?" The lead agent demands.

"Where's Keller," John asks?

"John!" Sherlock screams. "It's a trap!"

The taser electrodes shoot into John and Sherlock almost instantaneously. They twist uncontrollably and collapse to the floor with John lying across Sherlock's body; protecting his lover even in his unconscious state.

(-_-)

Sherlock comes to as several men jostle him about as they carry him to a waiting truck.

"John," he calls out needing to know his lover is okay. "John!" He struggles but the effects of being tasered linger and as he strains and continues to try to see where John is, he is manacled, his hands in front of him. It is a long ride to somewhere chained to the floor of the truck. John is not with him and this worries Sherlock terrifically.

Finally the truck stops and the sliding door at the back opens letting in the fumes of the city and the smells of river at low ebb. Sherlock is taken into an industrial style building, one of thousands that fill up this disused part of town.

He is set down very un-gently upon the rough tiled floors and several men stand guard over him, their guns drawn and aimed at his head. They do not fear his escape. He is captive and therefore not going to be a serious threat to their orders to detain him.

"Where is John?" Sherlock demands, he is completely himself now and will not to be rattled by L's thugs.

L enters the room. Her men stand more to attention. She looks only at the tall brunette seated on the cold floor. "So nice of you to visit, Sherlock."

"Bring John here," Sherlock demands, bearly able to control his temper. "What have you done with him?

"Your partner in crime solving is close. I'm afraid he's been a bit damaged in transport. Things like that happen, sadly. My men were happy to see him again after he trashed most of them at my other facility. Bring the good Doctor in for Mister Holmes," she says over her shoulder the door opens and more men come in carrying a limp and battered John with them.

John is dropped down next to Sherlock, who gathers the doctor as close as his manacled hands will allow. He has been beaten and his movements are subdued and his speech slurred. The damage done to his body is considerable, but worse Sherlock determines that a drug has been administered.

"I will leave you with your lover. Enjoy his company while you can. For I will take great delight in letting you watch as I kill him slowly." Her dark eyes reflect her delight in the murder to come. "Then you will follow him." Sherlock can see there is nothing but malicious intent in every line and angle of her vicious countenance.

She exits and all her minions follow her out. Sherlock and John are in a locked room with only one door.

"John, ‒John speak to me love," Sherlock wipes the blood from John's face with his coat sleeve. Taking several picks from a hiding place in the lining of his suit coat he opens the lock of the manacles and places them in his pocket. He pulls John into his lap and looks at the dire marks upon his face. He pulls up John's shirt to see the forming bruises on his ribs. "John can you walk, we have to get out of here."

John takes minutes to comprehend Sherlock's words. "Get out of here, Sherlock." He pushes Sherlock away with what little strength he has left. "Go. For me, go."

"Not leaving you," Sherlock says with surety. He examines the room in which they are sequestered. The building is old the sheet rock of the room has long ago been compromised, but how much noise can be transmitted without attracting attention?

He drags John nearer the wall and removes the hand cuffs from his pocket. Using his considerable strength, he jams the metal into the compromised sheet rock. He pulls the metal through the crumbling material and begins making a hole. He has surmised correctly, no studs bar his way. He kicks the circular piece of sheet rock in, pulls it out of the hole and begins on the other side of the wall.

John isn't capable of much, his body unresponsive to his commands. He knows that Sherlock can get out of this by himself. He just has to convince him to leave and go for help, but how to do that?

"Sherlock, you have to go‒get help. I'm going to slow you‒. You have to go." John tries to put some command into his voice but he is foggy from the drug. There wasn't a great deal of strength behind his words.

Sherlock stops momentarily turning to look John directly in the eyes; John can feel Sherlock's deep hurt. "I will not leave you in the hands of a mad woman. There will be no further discussion on this." Sherlock pulls John into a smothering hug that is tight and totally possessive.

John loses himself in the embrace. How can he hope to send his lover away when he feels such strong attachment? How can he allow Sherlock to stay, knowing they will both die at L's hand? Not just death but torture at the hands of a known psychopath who revels in the process.

Sherlock is through the wall and reaching back to retrieve John. They are into the next room and it isn't locked. Sherlock pulls John up onto his feet at his side. John isn't able to stand or locomote without assistance. It's hopeless. John makes no comment. He has to find some solution to his problem. Sherlock must live. He will willingly sacrifice his life to make sure his love keeps breathing; no matter that his death will cause Sherlock unbelievable sorrow.

Slowly they move through the darkened halls, being as quiet as they can. John hopes the adrenalin of the situation will counter the drugs in his system.

"Sherlock?" John whispers.

"Not going to talk about it, John," Sherlock counters.

"Hide me, you big brain. Hide me so she won't find me and get help." John prays this strategy will work.

"Okay‒that might work.' Sherlock is slightly snipped that he hadn't thought of it first.

(-_-)

Sherlock slips John into the small space and kisses him with great passion. Possessively. "Don't you move from here, John." Sherlock stammers out; finding it hard to leave his lover's side. But he leaves knowing the logic of the action is sound for their survival.

Ten minutes later Sherlock comes across Keller, Scout and Dave from Serpent's Tooth. Overcome with relief Sherlock actually grabs Keller's face and kisses his forehead.

"John's still in there." Sherlock is winded from running and ecstatic to find their rescuers so soon.

From off in the distance fire engines begin to route their way towards the derelict warehouse area they are standing in. Sherlock turns to see smoke rising from the building he exited ten minutes ago.

"No, god NO!─JOHN!"

Sorry cliffy…(-˷-) Hope everyone is enjoying this story. :D Star


	10. Chapter 10 Not near enough to the fire

**Near Death pt 10**

Dave, Scout and Keller have a death grip on Sherlock but it is taking every ounce of their combined strength to subdue the insane man in their hands. Sherlock seeks only to rush back into the burning building.

"You don't understand. John is in there. I have to go help him out. He's been drugged; he'll never make it out on his own. Let. Me. Go!" With that the man known as Sherlock Holmes escapes his rescuers and sprints faster than a cheetah toward the smoking industrial building.

"Shit," Keller exclaims and starts leveling commands into his mic/earwig; listening to the chatter that is snarling up communications. "Everyone to the building on fire; John Watson is in there somewhere. Notify the advancing fire department that we have people and possible hostiles inside as well. They can't enter the building nor even approach it until all hostiles have been neutralized."

Dave has a tablet out and he and Scout are bent over it and conferring about site plans and possible exits and people on the ground. Keller turns toward them and is unwilling to let them out of his sight.

"Coming?" He says with patience to his counterparts in Sherlock's hacker and homeless networks. "We have got to find that mad git before his fries his ass or we're all going to go down in flames with him. Mycroft Holmes is not a man whose brother you want to let die in a fire." The three men start running in a more sedate pace that wouldn't take them into the flaming building just yet.

(-_-)

Sherlock re-enters the now burning industrial. There are no immediate flames in his area, but the smoke is everywhere and getting thicker. He slowly makes his way to the third floor where he left John. The smoke necessitates that he crawl most of the way. He's moving floor by floor using stair wells that are also slowly getting clogged with smoke. The higher he goes the worst it gets. Finally he's at the right floor and he climbs the shelving against the southern wall, shoving aside the ceiling tile that exposes the lowered ceiling and a crawl space. The air up here is slightly more breathable than below. Air is coming in from somewhere. No John.

"John!" Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs. "John!" No answer. Sherlock hoists himself up into the crawl space where there is some ambient light. There against the far wall light and air is coming from above. His John wouldn't stay in the smoke. This is an old building; the fire escapes are on the outside of the structure. John would have to go to the roof to get to the escape ladder, but he'd have to be careful. L's people and maybe even L are still at large. Most likely she set the fire hoping that Sherlock and John would get caught in the conflagration. The bitch will pay for this, he thinks.

The fire engines are silent. Sherlock knows that Keller will keep everyone out. He can't risk the first responders, not even for a Holmes. Swat will be on the scene soon, but the fire won't wait for anyone. He and John are on their own for now. Sherlock climbs the rebar ladder that extrudes from the wall. He's trying to go as fast as he dare, but still be on the lookout for an ambush. There is a trap door above that's open to the roof. Sherlock shifts the gun that he pick-pocketed off Keller from his inner pocket to the small of his back.

He rises up out of the building and cranes around looking for John. There, there he is. A prone figure on the light colored roof next to what appears to be a door structure that comes up from the stair well.

Hoisting himself out of the opening at light speed he rushes to John. Gently he moves his lover onto his side. "Shit." Sherlock is shocked. There a new injuries on his face. He wants more than anything to lift John into his embrace, but he remembers what John has drilled into his thick skull. 'Don't move injury victims.' "What that hell have they been doing to you?" He is beyond angry.

L moves out from behind the standing structure of the stair well. She has John's Browning aimed at them. "Ah, my young Holmes, come back to me. I knew you'd be back for him. Even through the fires of hell, you're just that kind of guy aren't you?"

"Buildings on fire L, we have to get the hell out of here." Sherlock is rabid, knowing L is the one who's hurt John further.

L's mobile rings, she pulls it out of her pocket and thumbs it to speaker. All the while keeping the gun trained on John, knowing that will control Sherlock effectively.

"What's happening L? I'm hearing there's a fire at the number 10," a male voice with a melodic brogue questions?

"Master, I have Holmes and Watson. There is a fire at number 10, I can pull this out and complete my mission."

"L, I'm not in the mood for your antics. You had your shot. I told you to turn this one over to Bworz." There is a dark condemnation in the man's tone.

"I have them," she presses. "Master, I have them."

"You've tried my patience, L."

L's head explodes as the sniper bullet shatters it splattering Sherlock and John with blood and brain matter as she drops to the roof. There is no doubt that she is dead.

Sherlock grabs her mobile and flings it as far as he can over the furthest edge of the roof.

"Sherlock," John says opening his eyes. "You okay? Get to cover." John is grabbing Sherlock by his great coat and together crouching and running they make it to the stair well entrance.

Sherlock is so happy to see those midnight blue eyes filled with their normal intelligence and sparkling with danger.

"Possum, really John?" Sherlock pulls a disbelieving face at John as he engulfs John from behind in a rib cracking hug.

"Later love," John has retrieved his Browning as he passes L's shattered body. Smoke is coming up the stair well and pouring out of the building. John is looking for the sniper, following the given trajectory. "He could have had us right there. We should be dead. L's master has other plans for you Sherlock. You should never have come back." John didn't say _for me_.

"Bloody hell, I wasn't going leave you here with that mad woman." Sherlock is getting his ire up. "I will never leave you, John." Sherlock can't help but look at the bruises and abrasions that mar John's well worn and much loved face. "Don't ever ask me to do that. Keller, Dave and Scout are out there trying to get to us."

"Well that's some good news at least." John checks the Browning, she's ready. Gunfire erupts from several locations inside and outside the building.

"There are ten of L's men still inside but Keller has more people on the ground. If you stay close to me we could chance moving to the edge of the roof and look for the fire escape," Sherlock says confidently.

"We're not chancing anything. You are staying right here with me until we get back‒up and know that L's people are dead or captured."

Sherlock embraces John from behind, burying his face into the back of John's neck.

"I thought I'd lost you, that the fire had taken you from me," Sherlock says.

John brings his left hand up to caress Sherlock's face. "I'm in this for the long haul, you daft idiot. Nothing and no one breaks our bond." John shifts uncomfortably. Sherlock can tell that he's putting too much weight on John who is still suffering from serious beatings. Easing back a bit, Sherlock leaves a gentle kiss on the nape of John's neck.

The gunfire has stopped but the fire in the building is getting more intense. The smoke from the door structure is roiling and causing John and Sherlock discomfort. Covered with blood and brain matter, they are now sooty as well.

"There's still a sniper out here, Sherlock. I can almost feel him. He's over there on the roof of that building, a story above us. We can't risk moving from shelter."

They can hear the windows bursting out below them.

"The fire's changing the internal pressure of the building. If it gets too hot the roof will collapse," Sherlock warns. "Take my coat. I'm pretty sure they want me alive. I know you won't let me go out there. Take my coat, go out there and find the fire escape. At least give us a chance of getting off the roof before it goes."

Sherlock watches as John weights the pros and cons of the idea.

"I'll do this only if you promise to wait for me here." John voice is stern‒but his eyes betray him‒Sherlock can see his love shining through.

"I promise." Sherlock says as he removes his coat and hands it over to John.

John puts the coat on, making himself the smallest target possible he leaves the shelter of the door way and goes to the edge of the roof following its perimeter till he spots the fire escape railing. Quickly he returns to his lover. Terrified, Sherlock relaxes visibly as John settles next to him.

"We can get off. I'll go first, draw his fire, give you cover as you make it to the escape."

"No." Sherlock isn't listening to his bull shit. We are damn well going together. I'll leave the Belstaff here. The sniper won't know who is who."

"He could just shoot both of us, you know. We've been lucky up till now. With a scope he could tell us apart if he concentrates hard enough."

Sherlock says "Oh."

John can tell Sherlock is having one of his Eureka moments.

"Give it?" John squints at his brunette.

Sherlock took Keller's gun out of his pants waist band. Using it like a hammer he drives the hinges free letting the door ‒the old, solid wood door to come down in front of them.

"It won't stop the bullets but it will slow them down."

"You are a genius." John says as he ruffles the large curliness that is Sherlock's hair. Using his coat sleeve he swipes it across Sherlock's spattered and sooty face. Leaning in, he thoroughly kisses his mad genius. Then he pushes them both back into the inner wall of their safe haven.

Sherlock can tell John's energy reserves are waning. The adrenalin rush is quickly evaporating; the injuries are taking their toll.

More crashing of glass from below can be heard.

"John that's the firemen breaking windows," Sherlock is ecstatic.

"You can tell the difference‒of course you can," John smiles wearily.

"This means L's people are neutralized and Mycroft's minions are letting the firemen in. They are cross ventilating the building so they can better attack the blaze. Tricky stuff that. So are we going to do this? The door will cover us to the fire escape but we won't be able to use it going down."

John takes a deep breath and leans his head back on the door structure as he closes his eyes. "Sherlock, my energy levels are nearly gone."

"Not leaving you again," Sherlock says.

"Then I guess we wait for the firemen to get to us." John says sadly. "That is unless my resident genius can get us off the building? You have any wings in the pocket of your Belstaff?"

"Nothing here on the roof to work with, I'm going down the stair well a bit. See if I can find anything to help us out."

"Sherlock, I can't have you risking asphyxiation. There are toxic gases in the smoke."

"I have more than a passing knowledge of the contents of smoke." Sherlock tucks up, turns and starts crawling down the stairs before John can argue further or stop him.

John is distraught knowing even Sherlock can't hold his breath long enough to get too far. "God, I'm going to kill him when he gets back." John keeps looking for the sniper. Has he left the building or is he waiting for them to break cover. The fact that they hadn't been killed with L is encouraging, but‒.

From the North end of the building an amplified voice is talking. "Sherlock, Sherlock if you can hear me. Give us a sign‒where are you? Firefighters are entering the building."

"On the roof! Possible sniper on the roof of building to the north!" John shouts as loud as he can. "Sherlock get your arse back up here." John yells down the stair well.

John can hear gun fire from the other building. Hopefully they have the sniper in hand. From down in the stair well he hears mechanical noise like fans being turned on. The smoke comes rushing out of the stair well, followed by a very bedraggled Sherlock Holmes. He's coughing hard enough to cause him to vomit.

"Damn it, Sherlock." John drags his lover to him and begins loosening his tight clothing, placing him on his side so that he can maintain a clear airway. Sherlock is panting, coughing he appears confused and struggles against John's attempts to sooth him.

"What, where‒John‒where's John?" Sherlock asks as he continues to flail about.

"I'm right here Sherlock." John tries to soothe the tall brunette. "Don't thrash around so, love. Be still. I'm here; we're going to be all right."

"Johns hurt; I have to get to him. Let me go. I have to save him. He's everything. He's my life." Sherlock is distraught and continues to try to break free of John's hold on him.

"Sherlock, I'm here. I'm safe. You've saved me, you madman, my beautiful genius. Whatever you're thinking, think on this. I love you. We beat the devil-bitch-from hell. Mycroft's people are all over the building‒."

"Mycroft," Sherlock practically spits the name out. Finding in himself the clarity he feels for his governmentally esteemed and deeply despised elder brother.

"There you go," John smiles "I knew we could get you back on track. Breathe slow and easy now. Medics will be here shortly. We'll put you on oxygen and you'll be just fine. All fine." John gathers Sherlock up in his warm embrace and Sherlock, finally recognizes his lover, holding him tight.

John breathes a sigh of relief and the silence is broken by the storm of people coming onto the roof.

Scout and Dave come up the fire escape as medical personal arrive on the scene via the now cleared stair well. Sherlock is taken from John as the medical team separates them to be worked on separately. Keller arrives on scene with his entourage of minions in tow.

"Watson," Keller sees that of the two of his charges, Watson appears more with it. "I need a full report as soon as I can get one."

"Yeah, yeah," John says, exhaustion warring with duty and exhaustion winning. "When I've rested, eaten, slept and made sure Sherlock is fine, I'll be all over it."

"How is Sherlock?" Keller asks.

"I believe he is suffering from mild smoke inhalation, nothing that some oxygen and rest won't alleviate. Did you get the sniper on the other roof?"

"He didn't go down easy, but we got him. I'm just happy that Holmes is alright. His brother can be pretty difficult when his sibling is involved."

"L is dead; killed by her own people. One less psycho in London, but why'd they take her out? That's troubling."

"I want coroner transports as well as more police vehicles to pick up suspects, forensics and a major clean-up crew at number 10 Bywater Street ASAP. We have a serious mess to comb through and clean up before end of day."

(-_-)

Medics start IV's on both patients and they are strapped down to gurneys as they are transported to separate waiting ambulances.

"Mr. Holmes is being given oxygen and a mild sedative to calm him down; he appears to be doing well." The paramedic told John.

John could see that the medic had an earwig and was probably in touch with the other ambulance. Mycroft‒‒Mycroft was probably facilitating this communication; knowing that John would be desperate for word on Sherlock's status.

"Tell Mycroft I appreciate his providing this information for me." John smiles at the paramedic and he smiles back. "Shouldn't be we close to the hospital now?" John asks.

"You're being taken to a private facility, Dr. Watson. Not to worry, you and Mr. Holmes will be given the very best of care."

John settles in for the ride. Knowing Mycroft would only accept the very best of care for his little brother. Slowly, softly John drifts away not hearing the words spoken or the ambulance stopping or his gurney being unloaded. He doesn't hear anything and his mind is given over to the silence and the much needed sleep.

(-_-)

Dave and Scout commandeer a ride to the hospital to follow Sherlock and John. They call Lestrade to let him know about the situation and give him a status report. Upon their arrival it is found that neither John nor Sherlock has been admitted. Hurriedly other local hospitals were called. Lestrade arrives and speed dials Mycroft's number to see if John and Sherlock had been taken to a special black ops hospital for the governmentally exalted or that infamously under known secret agents frequent. Mycroft is adamant that nothing like that has happened. Upon further investigation, ambulance units had been called, but within minutes the order had been cancelled and the units had stood down. Somewhere in the big bad world John Watson and Sherlock Holmes have been taken away, to where and by whom; that is the question.

The search ensues. The Homeless Network and Sherlock's computer hacker network Serpents Tooth begin an all out assault on the city looking for the missing couple. MI5 and MI6 are scrambled. Mycroft is the power behind the government; no expense is spared, no stone unturned, all the usual suspects are plucked from his or her reality and turned inside out for information. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The big goose egg. It's another day in London town. The winter rains are deluging the city. It is cold, grey and the rain washes away the stale air and people scurry to their warm places. It's not a night to be out in it. It's not that kind of night at all.

(-_-)

John wakes and his mind is fuzzy and his mouth is dry. He's naked in bed. There is a blazing furnace on his right side. His lover is curled away from him. John moves to encircle Sherlock. His left hand is caught in something. He stares at his arm. His wrist is manacled in some kind of a plastic like substance. John startles now. There is danger here. With his free right hand he gathers Sherlock up against him; shaking his sleeping lover.

"Sherlock." The tall man is limp in his strong embrace. "Sherlock." John scans the room. The colors and placement of objects give the overall feel of their bedroom. But closer inspection shows that it isn't. This is no hospital. This isn't 221B. Sherlock is moving sluggishly. John tugs on the white material that encircles his left wrist. He is tied to the bed frame. It feels like the white material is glued to his skin. There is very little give.

He does a thorough examination of Sherlock. He has not been restrained and though he looks the worse for wear due to the ravages of the industrial fire. He appears okay. "Sherlock, I need you alert. I need you to listen to me."

Sherlock shakes that magnificent head of dark curls as if casting off water after a drenching rain. He looks into John's eyes and happiness invades those crystal blue laser eyes. He hugs John close breathing in is lover; basking in the warmth of his beloved.

"Sherlock, we're not in the hospital. I've been restrained. We need to know where we are. The last thing I remember is being taken away by ambulance from the warehouse."

"I was in the smoky stair well and I was trying to get back to you and I got lost." Sherlock said his brain finally coming back on line and he too gave their surrounds a determined stare. "L's dead this isn't her doing. Unless her minions hi-jacked us in the ambulance."

"Hello, my dears." A soft voice with just a hint of brogue sounds from everywhere. "I do hope that you are feeling better after your ordeal?" The voice inquires.

John places his left foot on the floor and pushed gently on the bed to see if it can be moved. No movement. Sherlock is free, but he'd never leave John behind again, not after the fire. John is thinking a mile a minute. He looks into those genius eyes and practically wills them to find answers.

"You have us at a disadvantage," Sherlock begins. "You know who we are. I can tell by your voice that you are L's master. The man who had her killed on the roof top."

"Yes, clever boy. I'm that very same man. I do find it difficult to keep my toys from breaking. That's the problem with toys they never really meet your expectations do they." He gave a snickery giggle that chilled Sherlock to the bone.

"Just what the hell do you want with us and who the hell are you?" John snaps twisting and turning his wrist trying to find some way to rid himself of the binding, but only proceeds to tear skin.

"I'm the very essence of secrecy. The man not found. Not even looked for. My name is Moriarty. James Moriarty. My devoted followers call me‒‒."

"Master." Sherlock breathes the name.

"And I'm here to take what I want." Jim's voice has an edge to it now.

"He wants me." Sherlock says without hesitation. "He wants to take me away from you John."

"Not going to happen." John crushes Sherlock to his side in bitter defiance of Moriarty's plan.

Sherlock beings to tremble in John's arm. He turns to look at John and there is fear and desperation on his exquisite face.

"What is it love‒‒what's happening?"

Sherlock is swaying now, wrenching himself from John's grasp.

"Sherlock!" John is upset and angry and not knowing what the hell is happening.

"If you don't come with me I will make you do terrible things." Moriarty says. His voice is venom eating the heart out of all who listen.

Sherlock stands his nude body a perfect sculpture of ageless beauty. There is a bed side stand on his side of the bed. He opens the small door on the stand and pulls the Browning out. He double hands the grip. His eyes wide now and his mouth open in disbelief as he moves the gun to aim at John's head.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John can't believe his eyes. Can't believe and neither, it seems, can Sherlock."

"He's my puppet on a string now. He'll do whatever I want him to. Shall I have him kill you Watson? Would you like to see what that does to his brilliant mind?"

"No, I will not go with you. I will NOT kill John." Sherlock yells.

John can see him straining to move the gun away. Sweat glistens on his face. He is shaking, his tremors becoming stronger and stronger.

"Stop!" John says. Sherlock begins to lower the gun. "Go with him." John demands of Sherlock. "Go with him and forget me. The best man has won and I concede defeat." John lowers his eyes and rounds his shoulders. "Leave me," John shouts at Sherlock, making him wince at the roughness of John's voice.

"That's a good man." Moriarty says soothingly. "Come Sherlock. Don't look back. Your doctors not worth a second thought."

Sherlock turns toward the only door, the gun limp in his hands. He moves slowly. As the door opens, John can hear a sob of self destructive sorrow escape Sherlock's lips. John watches as the door closes on Sherlock. He tamps down the rage in his heart. He cannot fathom what has transpired. How Moriarty has such control over John's lover and his life.

**Before you dis me for the mind control thing. Google Non-invasive Brain to Brain Interface (BBI). Neural interface systems (NIS). Focused ultra sound (FUS). There are people actually working on this kind of control. Right now a human thought can affect the brain of a mouse. So not so sci-fi but a focus for something in our future. Now whether that is a good thing or not, I leave to you dear reader.**


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